Danny's new wheelchair

When Danny was five he went to kindergarden like
all of the other five year olds in the sylvan neighborhood. 
He laughed and played with them
and sometimes left his chair, took off his shoe braces,
and felt the grass with hot bare feet
for a playground game.
My afternoon routine then was to hop off the school bus,
run inside our house for a snack and cold soda,
walk slowly up the hill,
sign the papers his nurse needed,
walk slowly home. 
"Faster, faster Emily!  Run!"
sometimes he hollered,
and I would run. 
We would come down the hill laughing
his face white and angelic and fragile
and mine a redder kind of proud relief
at being home at last. 

Well, Danny got a new self-propelling wheelchair on Saturday
and today is Monday. 
He can not be described as fragile anymore,
he has agendas and dreams and squarer limbs.
He still has trouble running but not for weakness.
His arms are strong enough to push his own wheels
said our mother.  So now he does.
I hopped off the school bus today,
slowly walked home.
At 3:15, like always,
I laced my sneakers and left to pick up my seven year old. 
I signed the form, reminded him to thank his nurse.

I opened the door and Danny pushed into the spring sunshine
and like a blacksmith with a forearm-sized anvil
he worked his way home,
I could only peck in a "watch for the edge" and a
"Are you sure you don't need help?" He was sure.
Going down the steep hill to our house
I wanted to hold the significantly smaller handles
tight, to keep him from crashing. 
But he panted to me that he knew how
to slow enough,
and whipped down the asphalt
cackling madly about "THIS IS AWESOME"
and EEEHAHAHAHA!
I ran behind him, and although our shadows merged
it was all his. 

He navigated the curb up to the driveway
and got out, stumbling from exaustion.
I giggled at him from the front poorch,
and he tired smiled back
a sweaty red proud relief
at being home
at last. 


-Citron